


sharp as a knife

by truethingsproved



Series: body lies still [1]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo, Tithe Series - Holly Black
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fae, F/M, Fae & Fairies, M/M, Multi, imagine that enjolras is like roiben, really only set in the tithe universe, you could read this with no knowledge of les mis and understand it tho
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-07
Updated: 2013-06-07
Packaged: 2017-12-14 05:56:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/833531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/truethingsproved/pseuds/truethingsproved
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even Grantaire is almost moved—almost, he supposes, being the key word, for there are few things more immovable than a passionless Unseelie fae.</p>
            </blockquote>





	sharp as a knife

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ryssabeth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryssabeth/gifts).



He carries himself like a Seelie knight, proud and bold, his shoulders back and his chin held up and his gaze like fire. Hair the color of sunlight falls to his hips, impossibly delicate and intricate braids scattered throughout in no discernible pattern. His movements are liquid, graceful in a way that the Seelie queen would envy.

This is nothing compared to his voice, though, a voice which rings through the clearing even when he raises his voice barely above a whisper. Even Grantaire is almost moved—almost, he supposes, being the key word, for there are few things more immovable than a passionless Unseelie fae.

He knows that the one in front of him is called Enjolras, knows that he was, in fact, formerly a Seelie knight, knows that the proud set of his mouth is born as much from his lineage (impressive, spanning back thousands of years, long before Ironsiders even  _had_  iron) as from his removal from the Court.

Even from where he’s standing, across the clearing from Enjolras, Grantaire can see the scar marking him as a traitor, the impossibly thin, straight line cut by iron, slicing through the center of his right eyebrow from about an inch above the arched brow to about an inch below his eye, clouded white with what in a less powerful fae would have been blindness but in him is merely human sight. He cannot see through glamour with his right eye, and it is a blindness that his skill more than makes up for in battle.

He had disrespected the Seelie king and lived not only to tell of it, but to plan rebellion. That, even Grantaire had to admit, was impressive.

Stories of Enjolras are common, whispered in the halls, even, of the Unseelie court, shared during revels and shouted from atop tavern tables. Grantaire has heard them all. Grantaire has probably told them all, a goblet of summer wine never far from full and some sweet young sprite in his lap, squirming with pleasure at the stroke of his fingers along her thigh as he spoke.

Combeferre and Courfeyrac, his lieutenants, stand at his side, equally resplendent but none so glorious as their leader. Combeferre has all of Enjolras’ lean height and then some, tall and thin as one of the birch trees he inhabits, his skin a chalky white and his eyes the color of moss. Fae like him are hard to become accustomed to seeing, with their long fingers curling and uncurling with their extra joints that disturb even the strangest of the fae. Combeferre’s tree is gone, burned to the ground by Seelie troops, and he has none of it left but ash he carries with him in a pouch around his neck, pressed to his bony breast underneath his own armor. Courfeyrac is less bizarre, Grantaire supposes, though he’d much prefer to look at Combeferre than Courfeyrac’s easy smiles that curl up and along his entire face, his sharp teeth and his cat’s eyes. Pointed ears slice through long, dark hair, and he rarely tries to keep his tail hidden; he has bedded half the fae in the clearing and will likely bed the rest before the year is out.

(He had even bedded Grantaire, once, not long ago, and the tail had been strange at first but Grantaire had come to like the feeling of it wrapped around one of his own thin wrists.)

At Grantaire’s side, Eponine hisses, one of her crows tucking its face into her hair, and Montparnasse presses his arm against hers as if to soothe her. That the bean sídhe spends her time with Ly Erg never surprised Grantaire, but Montparnasse’s strange gentleness with her always sets him ill at ease. His red right hand always remains gloved, sheathed behind spidersilk stronger than mail, and even Eponine’s crows have become accustomed to him.

“What is  _he_ doing here?” she rasps, glaring at Grantaire with eyes as white and cloudy as Enjolras’, though lacking none of their sight, and Grantaire shrugs.

“Marius wanted to see,” he answers, sounding bored, though he is ready to fall onto the defensive at any moment now; Montparnasse will not hesitate to strike him if it suits Eponine.  _Pity,_  he thinks,  _that he’s so enamored with her. She’s his weakness._  

She hisses again, and the crow starts, letting out an angry  _caw_  that makes Combeferre turn his eyes on them for a moment before returning his attention to the crowd as a whole. The tree fae’s movements are often slow, lacking in Enjolras’ grace and fluidity, and Grantaire feels his face flush beneath his curls. “ _Why_  did you think it safe to bring your human toy here?”

“He’s not my toy, Eponine, my love, and even if he were, he wanted to see it, so I brought him. He’s as safe here, with me, as he would be anywhere else.” Grantaire spares a quick glance for Montparnasse before arching one eyebrow. “Safer, wouldn’t you think, what with your infatuation with the boy, and the Ly Erg willing to bleed the world dry on your command?”

Grantaire doesn’t flinch when Eponine strikes him and slinks back, closer to Montparnasse, though the sting from her hand connecting with his cheek does not fade as quickly as it might for others; he feels his skin, his muscles, his bones, even, working with a fury to keep themselves from decaying at her undiluted touch.

Instead, he walks closer to Marius, whose wide eyes are drinking in the sight with a thirst akin to drunkenness. Grantaire slings an arm around him, and Marius turns his bright smile on his friend.

“This is incredible,” he murmurs, and Grantaire has never more pleased that he’d given Marius the Sight than he is now, with the boy—the man, the  _man_ , they age so much faster, but he is also still a boy, even as the roundness in his face is shed for a striking definition—seeing him exactly as he is and staying, pressed against his side, practically beaming. Grantaire’s no pretty sight, covered in iron scars and tattoos alike, the silver of his skin dulled from drink and overuse of glamour. It is dangerous, he knows, to walk through dreams as often as he does, to weave them with such intricacies and to enter them for so long, but he does so love it, loves the rush of standing inside a world he has created and controlling it. Marius loves it, too, which is how they’d come to know one another; he’d sought Grantaire out after the first dream Grantaire built for him, and was always more than happy to share.

It is an art, Marius would tell him, and Grantaire would shrug and roll his shoulders back and change the subject. There are so few good things to be found in the Unseelie Court; his creations are not among them. They arise from the ache of boredom. 

At his side, Marius is watching intently, trying to absorb as much as he can. Enjolras never once stops speaking, and Grantaire never once stops listening, drinking in his voice with the same greed in Marius’ eyes.  _The dreams I could weave for you,_  he imagines,  _the worlds we’d create._

Enjolras turns to address more of the crowd, falters once when his eyes meet Grantaire’s.

The rest of them don’t notice the hitch in his breath, the slight pull of his eyebrows as he begins to frown, the effort it takes to smooth his expression, all in an instant.

Above them, the moon watches almost benevolently while her children cry out against tyranny, scream for the Seelie king’s head.

Grantaire notices, though.

Grantaire always notices.

**Author's Note:**

> For Elizabeth. Nobody else I'd rather have sharing my star.
> 
> All titles will be taken from the Ellie Goulding song Salt Skin! Thank you for reading c:


End file.
